Yes, I said, it might be helpful. But very, very painful.
“So what’s your happiest memory from before the fire?” she said.
I thought hard. Several minutes went by. “I remember moments here and there, fragments, but I can’t think of a complete incident,” I said.
“No, wait. A picnic, at school. It must have been the end of term, or something like that—we all were outside, at any rate, in the sunshine.”
It wasn’t much to go on, and certainly not a detailed recollection.
“What was it about that day that made you feel so happy, d’you think?” She spoke gently.
“I felt... safe,” I said. “And I knew Marianne was safe too.”
Yes, that was it. Marianne—don’t think too hard—that’s right, her nursery class was there that day too.
We all got a packed lunch, cheese sandwiches and an apple. The sunlight, the picnic.
Marianne and I had walked home together after school, as we always did, going as slowly as we could and telling each other about our day.
The walk home wasn’t long. It was never long enough. She was funny, a gifted mimic. It hurt to remember how much she’d made me laugh.
School had been a place of refuge. Teachers asked how you got your cuts and bruises, sent you to the nurse to have them dressed.
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